Cheap Air Travel
On my flight home from New Orleans, I paid for a "snack pack" that included a half ounce Old Wisconsin beef stick, three crackers the texture and flavor of an old notebook, "gourmet" cheese spread, and 17 m&m's. All things considered, it was worth four bucks and came with a complimentary cup of ice water. As I grooved to Missy Elliot on my music app, I reconsidered my loathing of Cheapcrap Airlines.
I'd had to wait in a disorganized line of people bearing giant pieces of luggage for 30 minutes to check in at the counter with my single personal item. My rage dissolved when the man at the desk said in a Barry White voice so low I had to lean across the counter to hear him, "You traveling alone? Willing to help a baby or an old lady in an emergency? You like a window? Mm-hmm, I thought so, girl." None of these things were accurate about me, but the way he brushed my wrist with a fingertip as he handed over the boarding pass had me nodding and grinning like a fool. "I just got you a spot with more leg room and you're in the first boarding group. Your seat's my favorite number and the first initial of my name, Fernando."
"Why, thank you, Fernando," I gushed, not even looking at the pass.
My window seat in the 13th row was the emergency exit - hence the extra leg room, so I could push all the babies and senior citizens onto the inflatable slide should we face an unlucky, unplanned landing. I don't think of myself as superstitious, but really? Number 13 for the emergency row? Even budget highrises omit a floor numbered 13. Why not an aisle?
Still, my encounter with Fernando left me feeling so much love for humanity I nearly succumbed to the tearful pleas of the woman next to me. Cheapcrap had oversold the Sunday flight and bumped her husband to standby. They were headed to a music conference beginning that very evening, and you could almost hear the somber strains of her viola beseeching from the overhead compartment. Volunteers willing to give up their seats were promised a $600 voucher and hotel room. I raised my hand halfway, then quickly snapped it back when the flight attendant added, "The next flight to Denver is Tuesday."
I'm sorry, I thought, casting a guilty look at the woman in 13E. I have tickets to The Book of Mormon on Tuesday. I couldn't count on Cheapcrap getting me home in time any more than I could count on Fernando being (a) single, (b) findable, and (c) available to entertain me for two more nights in The Big Easy.
So I clung to my bad luck window seat and savored my 17 m&m's, one at a slow, melting time. Someone much more selfless than I would get the musicians to Denver, I had to be certain.
